Clarity
by ColieMacKenzie
Summary: The first thing he becomes aware of is her scent, the subtle, familiar notes of cherry and cinnamon sugar that tease his nose. ONE-SHOT.


**Clarity**

The first thing he becomes aware of is her scent, the subtle, familiar notes of cherry and cinnamon sugar that tease his nose. Then of her hand that rests on his forearm, her palm warm, her touch tender, a barely there pressure against his skin.

Slowly, other sensations trickle through. The unmistakable stench of hospital disinfectants, the bustle of activity from nurses and doctors just barely contained by the walls and doors of the building. The scratchy cotton against his skin and the lumpy pillow under his head.

A dull, throbbing pain in his forehead. And an overwhelming darkness.

"Beckett," he rumbles out her name, his voice raspy from disuse, as if he had neglected it in days, when in fact it can't have been more than a couple of hours. Immediately he hears the catch of breath in her throat, feels her shuffle closer and the subconscious clench of her fingers around his arm.

"Hey Castle. How are you feeling?" Her voice is warm and low, laced with relief.

"Head hurts," he groans, assessing the situation. "Why are all the lights off?"

"They aren't." Concern is layered through her tone now, he can tell. "Castle, it's really bright in here."

He rips open his eyes, blinks a few times, just in case, maybe they had still been closed? But no, there is nothing. His heart starts thumping anxiously.

"Kate," he can't keep the fearful tremble out of his voice, "I can't see anything."

* * *

He listens to a man he can't see, tries to pay attention to who he presumes must be his doctor, rambling something about vitreous hemorrhages and humors and he thinks, he knows humor, and this isn't it. The anxiety won't subside, he feels gripped by what feels like panic, he must see, really he is a writer, he can't _not_ see-

"Kate," his voice more pitiful than he ever wanted her to hear him, but he can't help it, he needs her, she is his strength. Clumsily he gropes around on the bedspread, searching for her hand, needs to hold on to her-

"Shhh," she murmurs near his ear, and then her hand comes to rest on top of his, squeezes around his fingers, her warmth on his skin a soothing contrast to his racing heart.

"What happened?"

"Remember our suspect, Jason Heath? We traced him through his phone, found out he was hiding in that abandoned warehouse?"

He nods, the images coming back to him as she speaks. Entering the warehouse behind Kate while Esposito and Ryan covered the exit at the other end, trailing close behind her as she cleared the space around them. Then nothing but darkness.

"He had been hiding up on a shelf," she continues, "got the drop on you from the side. He tried to run and clubbed you over the head with a metal pipe before I could get to him." She sounds contrite, like it is her fault that he got hurt. He squeezes her fingers.

"Yes," the doctor interrupted, clearing his throat. He had a slightly nasally voice which Castle finds surprisingly annoying. "As I was saying, the resulting head injury caused vitreous hemorrhages to your eyes, resulting in the temporary effects of blindness you are currently experiencing."

He tries to wrap his head around it, can't make sense of anything. "Excuse me, vitriol what?"

Suddenly Kate's fingers are in his hair, softly ruffling through the strands and running along his scalp. He tilts toward it, her tender touch that slowly calms the hurried flutters of his heart. He hears her low composed breathing close to him, and the slightly impatient shuffle of the doctor's shoes against what is likely a linoleum floor.

"Your eyes contain a clear, jellylike substance called the vitreous humor. When light enters your pupil, it passes through the vitreous before it strikes your retina. Your head injury caused blood vessels to burst in your eyes, and these hemorrhages are bleeding into your vitreous humor, causing the blindness you are experiencing. Your case is mild, however, the blood will disperse and the blindness will clear up over time on its own. I've got your release forms ready for you."

He hears paper ruffling and assumes that the doctor gave Beckett his paperwork.

"What do you mean, _over time_? How long is that?" He asks impatiently. Why does it feel like doctors always withhold half the important information until you nag them?

"Hard to say," and finally there is a note of apology in the doctor's voice, "could be a couple of days, could be a week. Don't worry, you'll be fine," he appeases him.

"Thank you, Doctor…" Kate answers for him.

"Milos," the man answers, and retreating squeaks of soles on linoleum tell him that the doctor is leaving.

He exhales on a sigh. This is so not going to be fun.

"Come on Castle," Kate says decisively. Her fingers trail down the side of his face, and she rests her palm against his cheek for a moment. "Let's get you home."

* * *

Kate unlocks his front door and gently pushes him inside. Finally, he sighs in relief, a familiar space.

Despite her best efforts of guiding him, he is still going to sport a few bruises from where he bumped into various corners and places, finding that he is not in-tuned enough with his own body to make up for the lack of eye sight.

He feels like a bumbling, helpless fool, stumbling around, hanging onto Kate's arm with a death grip.

It's a scary world when you can't see, when one of your senses is shut off. All other sensory information around him seems to sharpen in intensity; stronger, louder, more odorous. A car horn blaring nearby made him jump, causing both of them to stumble and he bumped his thigh into a fire hydrant. The smell of hot dogs and greasy burritos of the street vendors almost made him nauseous. Voices resounded all around him, a jumble of languages and accents, yelling in his ears. The taxi ride almost like a roller coaster with your eyes closed, tumbling forward and back as the car screeched to a halt abruptly, then vaulted him against the seat back with every acceleration.

He stands still, inhales the quiet of his place, the subtle scents of almond and vanilla votive candles that are Alexis's current favorite.

"You okay?" Kate speaks close to his ear, her presence by his shoulder as perceptible to him as if he could actually see her. It's as if she is wrapped in her own aura, an enticing cloak of warmth and strength, subtle scent and mesmerizing allure. She keeps her voice low and he isn't the least bit surprised that she has picked up on his discomfort with any more intense sensory information.

"Yeah," he clears his throat, tries to give more strength to his voice than he is really feeling, "doing alright. Other than the obvious."

She places a hand on his shoulder, lets it slide toward his neck, her palm connecting directly with his skin and her touch is so soft, like cool silk, making his knees feel shaky. He sways toward her, drawn in by her magic.

Does she know she has this effect on him? Is she aware that every touch of hers makes his knees weaken, every smile of hers makes him giddy, sends butterflies dancing in his belly?

"Head still hurting?" She questions softly while she kneads the muscles on the side of his neck with her fingertips. It is pounding, actually, his head, a dull thrum in his temples and behind his eyes, but everything is muted now, calmed by her touch.

"Mmm 's okay," he lulls his words, leans into her caresses.

"Come on," she nudges him, grasps her hand around his and pulls him forward. "You need to eat something before you can take some more pain killers."

* * *

She makes him food while he sits at his kitchen table, listening to the sounds of her shuffling around in his space. She is moving quietly, trying to keep down the noise level as she opens and closes cabinets, the refrigerator, the drawer with the silverware. He drops his arm on the table, lays down his head in the cradle of his elbow, keeping his eyes closed. As if that makes a difference in the level of darkness around him.

All sounds seem amplified and he makes out the crackling sounds of aluminum foil, the soft whisper of plastic, even the rustle of her jeans when her legs brush together while she walks.

He loves how familiar she is with his kitchen; it makes him feel a little fuzzy, bathes him in images of domesticity in a future he is so hoping will one day be and a secret hot thrill rushes all over his skin.

He wishes he could see her. He misses her beautiful, captivating smile.

"Hey," her voice near his ear all of a sudden, low and calm, her hand on his shoulder and he realizes he's been drowsily daydreaming and didn't hear her move close again.

"I made you a sandwich," and the clank of porcelain against glass tells him that she put a plate in front of him.

"Thank you." He fumbles to find the sandwich, then takes a big bite, realizing how hungry he actually is. Something cold and moist squirts against his fingers.

"Ugh," he kind of squeaks out the sound and she chuckles.

"Just some mustard, Castle," she says with a smile in her voice.

She rests a hand on his upper arm, leaves it there, warm and calming, the entire time while he eats.

* * *

Well this day isn't embarrassing at _all_, he thinks as he stumbles through his bedroom, trying to make his way towards the bathroom without any more major bruising.

It is somewhat easier to navigate his own home in this pitch-black darkness, where he is moderately aware of the doorways, the placement of his furniture, and any other stumbling blocks that may jump in his path, but he still has to take slow, searching steps, pad along the walls sometimes to find his bearings.

Once he makes it inside the bathroom he flips the light switch, but it stays just as dark around him, and he groans in frustration, feeling ridiculous for that now utterly useless habit. He carefully maneuvers through the space, trying to go about his business. He washes his hands thoroughly, then runs a washcloth over his face as well, feeling embarrassed all over again about how silly he must've looked with food splattered over his face.

"Mustard on your face too," she had pointed out when he was finished with his sandwich, then traced her thumb along the corner of his mouth, and his stomach plunged at the unexpected touch, the heated proximity of her body next to his.

And suddenly he had felt like a fool, a bumbling idiot who couldn't eat without making a mess of himself, just because he couldn't see; he wanted her caress to be real, not a gesture of pity at his helpless state, that nevertheless left him a puddle of throbbing need at her feet.

He bounded off his seat, his chair tipping over backwards by the momentum of his rushed movement and falling loudly onto the tiles of the kitchen.

"Excuse me," he apologized and stumbled away in the general direction of where his office would be.

He could almost feel her eyes at his back, alertly watching his every step.

* * *

The only good thing of this entire experience so far, he thinks as he exits his bathroom, is that it appears to make Kate a lot more touchy-feely than customary. She's touched him more within the last few hours than over the past months. The mere acknowledgment is like a stampede of wild horses in his abdomen, the powerful thump leaving him jittery.

They are both cautious, usually; there is an unspoken, unacknowledged understanding between them that makes them flitter around their fuzzily drawn lines, preserving their status quo with great care.

He doesn't know what changed; he assumes it is merely because she is trying to give him something to hold on to, an orientation point while he has no sight, an acknowledgment that she is there. No matter what it might be, he won't complain though, he will take it.

He'll take whatever she is willing to give.

Her body collides with him at that moment, a yielding pliable softness as he runs into her, lost in thought, blind, unaware. She grips his biceps, holds on tightly trying to find her footing and he grabs onto her hips to steady her. Her bones are jutting against his palms, her breasts smashed against his chest, so supple and oh- so enticing. Heat exudes off her skin, seeps into him, setting him aflame.

"I'm sorry," she exhales on a rush of breath that tickles against the skin of his neck, "my fault."

Her breathing is rapid, he can feel her chest rising and falling against his and it takes all his strength to not tug her closer, tighter against him, to not claim her mouth with his.

Her hands trail off his biceps, movements that feel almost reluctant but he can't tell, isn't sure without being able to see her eyes, trying to decipher the mystical expressions of her face and so he releases her too, takes a step back.

"I just," she sighs, her voice hesitant, "came to check on you."

She probably has to head out, get back to work now, and the thought leaves him melancholy. He doesn't want to stay alone like this, blinded and pitifully helpless. Doesn't want to be without her; he needs her by his side, to give him strength, to keep him grounded, to even him out.

He just… needs her.

But he can't keep her; he can't be the one to keep her away from her job.

He feels his way backwards and, finding the edge of his bed, he sits down heavily, starts toeing off his shoes. "I should get some rest," he murmurs, giving her an out.

"Okay," her answer floats toward him, but instead of retreating, her steps come closer until he can feel her standing by his side.

He scoots back, leans against the headboard. Kate grasps his hand in hers, unfolds his fingers and places two pills on his palm, then nudges his other hand with a cold glass until he grasps it.

Castle knocks back the pain killers, washes them down with a large gulp of water. "You need to head back to work?"

"No," she announces matter-of-factly, taking the glass from him and placing it on the nightstand. "Took the rest of the day off."

Weight dips onto the mattress and all coherent thought vacates his head when he realizes that she scoots onto his bed, coming to sit next to him. Her arm lightly brushes his.

"I'm staying right here."

* * *

"I can't sleep," he whines, sits back up in the bed in frustration. He is wiped but restless, can't calm down the flutters inside and he knows he sounds like a petulant child but he doesn't care. Much. He wants to seem manly, _of course_, strong and fearless for her but his defenses are down, he is exhausted from having to focus on all his senses, and her enthralling scent, her sinewy enticing body next to him are not helping.

He feels her moving and then her fingers ruffle through his hair in comfort. "Okay. Hang on." Her voice carries a smile and then she bounds off the bed.

Kate returns a couple of minutes later, climbs back next to him like she did before.

"Lie down again," she orders, almost strict, and so of course he obeys, scoots under the comforter because she sounds like a nurse and that's a little bit sexy.

She settles next to him; sitting up and leaning against the headboard, he deduces, because the dip in the mattress is more pronounced at about the height of his shoulder blades.

Then the low crack of a spine, rustling of paper before her words float around him.

_For a long time I used to go to bed early. Sometimes, when I had put out my candle, my eyes would close so quickly that I had not even time to say 'I'm going to sleep.'_

Her voice is like music, melodious as she reads the first passages of 'Remembrance of Things Past,' a soft hum, a relaxing cadence that lulls his mind, calms the stutters of his heart. He's always loved her voice, hangs on every word she says. Likes to watch as they dance across her beautiful lips, but now, without being able to see her, he can more easily catch the charming nuances, the harmonious patterns and inflections of her speech.

He sighs, wraps a hand around one of her ankles as he snuggles his face into the pillow, and her voice hitches for a moment before she continues.

_And half an hour later the thought that it was time to go to sleep would awaken me; I would try to put away the book which, I imagined, was still in my hands…_

* * *

His pillow feels different when he wakes up; soft and giving under his cheek, really warm and it smells so much like her that he buries in closer, snuggles his face against it and holds it tighter within the cradle of his arm. The pillow suddenly moves, rapidly up and down and his brain comes fully awake, his eyes fly open. Still pitch black all around him but yes-

He takes stock quietly, pinches his eyes closed and pretends to still be asleep because yes, that is-

Kate's _breast_. Under his cheek. So soft and enticing and oh please don't let this end, ever.

His heart is racing, he has trouble controlling his breathing but he focuses, takes long, fake-sleeping breaths while he assesses his situation.

There's a whisper of paper close by his ear, the unmistakable sound of a page being turned. She must still be reading, he deduces. And at some point during his sleep, he had migrated toward her, had snuggled into her chest, had wrapped an arm around her, his hand clenched around her waist.

And she had let him.

In fact, she is _still _letting him. Despite the short moment when he startled her, she is once again sitting calmly, reading, while his face is essentially smashed into her breast. As if this is something they do every day, as if this much body contact between them is normal. As if she doesn't mind.

As if she- likes it?

He can't stop his heart from thumping; flutters leaping all the way up into his throat, and he wishes, oh how he wishes this were real, wishes he could feel this every day. Wishes he could have her.

Oh God, please- "Kate," the words tumble out of his throat without his permission, her name a raw, desperate sound on his tongue, and his arms contract around her, his hand squeezing her waist; he presses his cheek further into her shirt, inhales her sweet warm scent, holds her tighter to him, _oh Kate, Kate, Kate…_

She freezes; the book thumps onto the hardwood floor. She stops breathing; he can feel the deep hitch of breath underneath her skin, and then the arrest of her ribcage.

They stay like that, infinite moments of suspended silence and he doesn't move, doesn't dare breathe, wants to hold on to this forever, this magical moment of exhilaration, expectant and heavy, of heart-clenching panic, of tender hope.

And then she moves, a careful jostle of her upper body and he holds still, clenches his muscles in trepidation because he _knows_ she will untangle from his embrace now and, oh _please_, he doesn't want this moment to end but suddenly her fingers are tangled in his hair instead.

Kate trails her fingertips along his scalp, her nails a soft scratch against his skin and he exhales audibly, pushes against her hand seeking ever more of her touch. She places her other hand on his cheek, caresses the shell of his ear with the pads of her fingers, and her touch is tender, caring, almost reverent.

"Castle," she murmurs and he feels his name dancing through her chest more than he can hear it. He lifts his head, leans into her soft hands, seeking out her face but there is still only darkness around him and he groans in frustration; he misses her smile, misses seeing the sparkle in her captivating eyes, aches to see the darker glint of passion that he knows is hidden in their depths, that he hopes to find one day.

"Shhh," she whispers the sounds into the inky blackness, cradling his head in her hands; a palm rests on each of his cheeks, a branding touch and at first he thinks he imagines it but then he feels it again, more insistently, a tugging against his jaw and so he follows the movement, lets her drag his head closer to her. He's leaning over her now, feels her ribcage rise and fall more rapidly underneath him, her breasts grazing his chest and he feels the sparks burst brightly through two layers of clothing between them.

There's intensity, a heightened awareness to this moment that he has never experienced like this before. The warmth of her body seeps through the layers of fabric between them and right into his skin, heating the blood in his veins until it rushes loudly in his ears. Her scent is stronger now, more tart and pronounced as it layers over them. Her breath is hot, even a bit moist as it rushes forth, dances over his face, tingles along his lips.

He feels her heat her scent her heartbeat her breath her skin, he aches, he yearns for her so much and just then, so delicate that at first he wonders if it is his imagination, she touches her mouth to his.

Her lips are dry; warm silk that brushes gently against him, and then she opens them on an escaping tumble of breath. Kate closes her mouth around his upper lip, places a tender kiss, then moves to his lower lip, kissing it gently, following the shape of his mouth in the same fashion.

His arm feels shaky where he props himself up over her, his skin tingles, his heart thuds so loudly that he thinks she must hear it too. His other hand is still resting by her ribcage and he trails lower, slips underneath the soft cotton of her tee shirt, and rests his palm against the heated naked curve of her waist.

She arches toward him, mouth opening on a gasp that rushes onto his lips and then she slips her tongue against his mouth, paints along the shape of his lips, nudges the seam of his mouth.

He opens to her on a desperate sigh and then she meets him, deep and intense, delves into his mouth with abandon and blatant need, and he tangles with her, draws from her what she gives, seeks ever more because he aches for this woman with such intensity that there are no words, no descriptions, only frantic need.

She moans a dark sound into his mouth as he devours her, claims her lips, her mouth, her tongue, the entirety of her, lost in the feel and taste of her. Lost in her, with her. Finally, finally she is in his arms, sizzling and lithe and soft and wiggly; finally he has her and he feels as if his heart is leaping out of his chest and sinking into hers, joining with her heart underneath the protection of her ribcage.

His skin feels fuzzy, tingly, his blood singing with need and he tugs her with him, pulls her onto her side and enfolds her within the cradle of his arms and legs.

* * *

This is the most intense, most frustrating, most emotional experience he's ever had.

It's not like he's never had sex in the dark before. But even with the lights off, there's always glints of illumination, shimmers and shadows that sneak in and outline shapes, highlight features. And it's not like he hasn't made love before either.

But nothing has ever felt like this before. There's no one like her.

She moves above him, soft shape and fluid limbs, and he is embraced by her as by the pitch-black darkness lying behind his eyes; he can't see anything, only feel, all his other senses alert, on sensory overload.

He is aching to see her, the need clawing desperately at his insides, for her smile, the flutter of her eyelids, for her skin, her body, her enticing nakedness, and yet this chance to truly _feel_ her is its own unique gift, her gift to him.

Her fingertips play along the lines of his ribs, leaving his skin quivering, sensitized to every touch, goose bumps rising along his limbs, while her warm, lovely lips graze across his chest. She dances soft kisses along his pecs, down to his stomach, and he reaches for her head, at once desperate and yearning, pulls her toward his face to kiss her again, deeply and full of longing. Her mouth is yielding, frenzied against his and she trembles in his arms as her tongue links with his.

He wraps his hands around her waist, so slim in his grasp, holds her tightly to him and she moans, low and sensual against his lips. Her skin is like silk, almost cool to the touch as he runs his fingers up her spine, travels along the expanse of her back. He outlines her contours with his fingertips, explores her body that he knows so well by sight, yet has never touched before, not like this. His strokes color the images in his mind; he can see her in front of his inner eye, imagines what her skin looks like, naked, fair and radiant under the soft glow of the single lamp on his nightstand.

She shifts under his touches, arches and shimmies, and he focuses, learns her reactions to his hands; senses, savors each response, listens to every moan, hiss or groan that tumbles from her lips. She shivers against his body, her scent more intense as waves of arousal lift off her skin and he teases her higher, ever closer.

Her thighs clamp tightly around his hips; he wraps an arm around her waist to sits up and her middle connects with his in a heated slide that leaves them both shivering, aching for more. He cradles her on his lap, body to body, skin to skin. Kissing his way down her neck and along her shoulders, he savors the sweet flavor of her skin.

"You're so soft," he murmurs against her collarbone, and she trembles in his arms, clings tightly to him as she slowly, reverently joins their bodies.

* * *

He wakes to glaring white light piercing his eyes and he quickly squeezes them shut again to stop the pain that shoots into his brain. Then his heart thumps loudly against his ribcage when he realizes that there is no longer pure darkness; there is light now.

Carefully he blinks open his eyes once more, adapting to the bright glare. Slowly he can make out the shape of his window, the outlines of his furniture and surroundings. Everything is blurry still, fuzzy edges and shapes, splashes of color. No real detail yet but still, he can see!

His stomach flutters excitedly and he turns over searchingly. _Kate!_ But the bed is empty beside him; her scent lingers in the bedding but the sheets are cool to the touch. His heart squeezes painfully, the disappointment a tangible flavor against his tongue.

"Hey Castle," her tender voice suddenly floats toward him, and he whips around, facing the doorway where the sound came from. And there she is, her contour blurry but unmistakably his Kate, long limbs and smooth lines, and the rush of relief makes him lightheaded. He grins toward her and she ambles closer, sits down by his hip on the edge of the bed.

"Good morning," she murmurs, and even though it is blurry, he can still make out the smile that plays along her lips, tender and just a bit shy as she holds a mug of coffee out to him.

He takes the mug, places it on the nightstand and instead cradles her face within his palms, pulling her toward him.

"Good morning," he whispers against her lips, and then he kisses her, full and loving.

It's a good morning now.

_The End_

* * *

**AN: **I was given the wonderful opportunity to talk a little about fanfiction, my writing, and Castle in a 'Storming the Castle' podcast!

Find part 2 here: **stormingthecastle(dot)podomatic(dot)com(slash)entry(slash)2012-04-25T16_47_15-07_00**


End file.
